


The New Boy in Town

by Eve_Louise (Stregatrek)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkwardness, Fluff, Greg is the coolest, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Maybe a little angst, Mycroft is such a nerd oh my god, Sherlock is a brat but in a moderately helpful way, Teen!Lestrade, kid!Molly, kid!Sherlock, my friend and I wrote a headcanon that somehow spiraled out of control, mystrade, teen!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/pseuds/Eve_Louise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade is the new boy at the high school Mycroft Holmes goes to.<br/>Sixteen year old Greg is that awesome kind-of-punk kid who plays rugby and is funny without being the class clown, the one that everyone likes for one reason or another.<br/>Mycroft doesn't understand why it has to be the coolest boy in his form who makes his heart beat faster, but every time Lestrade smiles it's like a samba in his chest and he's dying to talk to the older boy but he doesn't know what to say because they're nothing alike and he wouldn't know how to start a conversation but sometimes the punk boy says hello to him in the halls and he nearly drops all of his textbooks.<br/>They're dying to talk to each other but neither knows quite how to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Boy in Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minerva_winchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minerva_winchester/gifts).



> I never meant for this to happen, I posted a silly headcanon to tumblr and got a couple messages wanting a full fic.  
> This just sort of... got away from me.

 

                Mycroft Holmes sighed, double checking that he had all of his textbooks before he turned off the light in his room and went down the hall to collect Sherlock. First days of school were never much fun for either of them. Every year, it seemed that Sherlock found someone new to humiliate. He was only eight years old now, and yet he’d managed to make two teachers cry and god only knew how many other children. For Mycroft it wasn’t as much a social problem as an inconvenience. He disliked wasting time with all the first-day formalities, could not stand the inevitable chaos and shrieking in the halls, and frankly had been bored of most of his classmates since the first form.

                “Sherlock, are you prepared for school?” He asked, knocking on his younger brother’s bedroom door.

                “Yes,” The door opened slowly, the little boy behind it looking surly. But at least he had on all of his clothing, and even looked to be carrying his school bag. “But it ought to be summer longer. Why call it ‘summer holiday’ if we go back to school before autumn has begun?”

                Mycroft sighed, ruffling his brother’s hair and earning himself a kick in the ankle for his trouble. His brother was at the age when he had millions of questions, but didn’t want anyone to tell him the answer. He wanted to figure everything out for himself, and only asked the questions aloud for the pleasure of hearing his own voice, it would seem.

                “Are you going to pick me up?” The dark-haired boy asked, looking up at his brother. Though not as far up as he used to have to look, Mycroft noted.

                “Yes. I don’t have any after-school activities for at least another week.”

                “After that do I have to walk home alone?”

                “You could ride the bus,” Mycroft suggested, knowing the futility of the idea. “Goodbye, father!” He called, opening the front door.

                “Have a good day at school, boys! Your mother says goodbye!” Papa Holmes’ voice came from the back of the house, where he often worked on repairing small knickknacks for friends and the friends of friends. Their mother had risen earlier than her children and gone to prepare for her day teaching university students advanced mathematics.

                “Hurry up,” Sherlock complained, practically dancing at the edge of the driveway.

                Mycroft smirked and stepped up his pace. “You aren’t usually this eager for the first day of school, Sherlock.” He commented.

                Hopping on one foot and then the other, Sherlock answered, “It will be over with soon, and anyway Molly texted me and said that there’s something she wants to show me.” He tripped on his shoelaces as he tried to switch feet again.

                Smiling as he caught his brother’s elbow before the younger boy hit the ground, Mycroft let Sherlock sustain his delusion that Molly’s surprise would be anything more exciting than a dead animal of some sort. The two younger children shared a fascination with living things, particularly once the term ‘living’ was no longer quite applicable.

                When they were only a minute from Sherlock’s school, Mycroft slowed their pace and glanced over at the gangly eight year old. “I know you don’t enjoy the first day, Sherlock, but if you make an effort today then the rest of the year may improve considerably from the standard set by previous years.”

                He didn’t get any answer but an indignant huff. “Good luck, Sherlock. I shall pick you up right here.”

                Once again, Sherlock ignored him, hitching his bag over his shoulder and shouting “Molly!” at the little brunette girl with her hair in pigtails. Mycroft stood and caught his breath for a moment, watching his brother greet his friend before realizing that he ought to be getting himself to his own first day.

-

                As he was now in year eleven, Mycroft didn’t feel compelled to put as much effort into paying attention to the other students as he normally would. They were all familiar faces, anyway, with nothing more interesting to offer than a slight change in appearance or opinion over the summer. He obediently received a syllabus for each class, and made small talk with members of his chess team, student government, business club, and of course the mathlete team. There were some debate club members who still offered him a somewhat-intimidated smile, but he had not had the time for that extra-curricular the year before. Nor would he this year, most likely. Which was a shame; he rather liked debate. The competitions were mildly interesting, at least, and the trophies he won would look quite nice on future applications.

                Lunch was dull, as he hadn’t received any assignments he could begin while the people around him chattered mindlessly about who they had seen over the holidays. In fact, it wasn’t until the last class of the day that Mycroft felt any real interest in the proceedings of the world around him.

                He always found literature class to be an adequate pastime, not exactly the most lauded subject but interesting enough that he didn’t mind sitting through the opinions of his classmates. Reading was easy, of course, but interpretation was never dull. He found himself glad that it was his last class of the day, giving him something to look forward to even before he entered the room and found himself faced with a brand new student who seemed to have fallen from the stars to take a seat in the loud classroom. Everyone seemed to be talking, and a few people were chatting to the new boy- _sixteen, plays guitar, summer in France, transfer from North Somerset, rugby player, two dogs and a cat, parents still married, no siblings, job in a shop (something in food service, not working today), loves pizza and Nutella_ \- the new boy’s (wonderful) laugh interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts, and he realized that he ought to stop standing and staring.

                As it turned out, the newcomer’s name was Gregory Lestrade, and he made the class pass twice as quickly as Mycroft would have expected. They were seated in opposite corners of the room, but that didn’t stop him from looking with interest at Lestrade’s casually-spiked hair and the pins on his bag- advertising everything from the Clash to a local animal shelter. Their instructor made them all introduce themselves, and Lestrade was the first. “Hi,” he said, sounding comfortable speaking to a room of complete strangers. “I’m Greg. New this year- obviously. Erm… my favorite book is _Catch-22_ right now, I just finished it so that’s probably why it’s my favorite. Ask me again in two weeks.” He laughed, and Mycroft found himself taken unaware by the smile he could feel on his own face in response.

                “Thank you, Greg, welcome to London.” The professor smiled and wrote ‘Greg’ beside his given name on the roster in her hands.

                “Thanks. Looking forward to being here,” He beamed. Introductions proceeded around the room, all of them perfunctory and casual; most of the students present had shared a class with someone else in the room at least once that day, and all of them were passingly familiar with each other.

                As it approached his turn, Mycroft found that he didn’t know what to say. Of course everyone knew who he was, everyone except Gregory. He didn’t want to sound pretentious by listing the organizations he was involved with, or adding any sort of title after his name- Student Body President, mathlete team captain, chess team captain, business club president, etc. “Erm- Mycroft Holmes. I’ve just finished a biography of Churchill’s pre-war years. It was very… motivational.” He winced. That sounded pathetic. It hadn’t been a ‘motivational’ book persay- but he hadn’t wanted to spend more time talking than the average.

                Thankfully, the professor did not hesitate to respond to him as she had with the other students, commenting on him lightly; “Mycroft here is the student body president, and I hear he’s been involved with nearly every other club at school. If you need anything, he’s your guy,” She smiled, and he crimsoned, deliberately staring at the front of the room rather than watching how Lestrade reacted. It was silly, he told himself, to be so aware of someone you’d never spoken to directly. Someone you just walked in to see for the first time ten minutes ago.

\

                The ride home wasn’t bad, but Greg was definitely glad that he had a motorcycle to do it on rather than having to walk. Or take the bus like the poor bastards he’d seen filing dismally onboard after school as he rode away. And then almost rode into oncoming traffic because he was staring at someone walking along the sidewalk with a bag that seemed far too large and posture that indicated he was used to it- that guy from class… with the cool name. He sighed to himself, dropping his helmet on his bed. _Nice move, Greg. Maybe next time if you swerve toward him he’ll actually look at you before having to dive out of the way or be crushed to death._

                “Hey honey!” His mom tapped on the door, pushing it open without waiting to hear whether she could come in. “How was school?”

                “Fine,” He smiled, dropping his bag on the bed and unzipping it. “I have a couple things you probably want to see, forms and stuff. It can wait, if you’re busy.”

                “Nope, I’m done with work for the day,” She smiled at him, still holding a dishtowel. He sighed a bit, noticing that; she spent her day working in a travel agency dealing with people who didn’t seem to understand that planes could not be chartered for their personal convenience, and he’d said he would do the dishes when he was back from school so that she didn’t have to. “Come on out to the kitchen and we’ll check out these forms.”

                “Be right there,” he agreed, checking that he had found everything she needed to see before he followed her. “Leave the dishes next time, mum, I said I would do them.”

                She waved him off. “I was just nervous, waiting for you to come home. First day of school, big day.”

                “Mum, I’m sixteen. It’s not that important anymore.”

                “Well, maybe not to you.” She corrected good-naturedly, sorting through the papers he put on the counter while he went in search of a snack. “Have you got a favorite class? Do you like your teachers? Were the other kids nice to you?”

                Greg laughed, turning away from the cupboard with his prize- a jar of Nutella. “Yeah, the other kids were fine, mum. They seem nice enough on the whole. My teachers were all right, the maths teacher is a real prat and the literature teacher is too nice, y’know, too friendly to be teaching kids our age. She kind of… simpers over us, you know, like we’re little kids who need encouragement.”

                “Well, some people are just like that,” his mum replied, looking askance at his choice of sustenance. “So what class do you think you’re going to like?”

                “Science seems like it will be fun. And I do like literature, actually, I don’t really mind the teacher. It’s just weird. And I think it’ll be fun. The reading list looks pretty good.”

                “Oh, good.” She smiled happily. Greg knew that she’d worried when they’d had to move that he’d not fit in at a new school, especially being in his last basic year. He thought he’d be fine- the reading list wasn’t the only thing in literature class that looked good.

                “Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?”

                Moving aside the papers she’d read, Greg’s mum replied, “No, I was thinking we might go out. You know, celebrate your first day of school and all. We won’t have much chance, seeing that you got yourself a job.”

                With a fake groan, Greg said, “Mum, we’ve been over this. I wanna make a bit of my own money, and I’m only gonna work after school a few days a week. Plus, free icecream, right?”

                “I know, Greg, but still.” She handed back his schoolwork and he absconded to his bedroom with the jar of Nutella and a spoon before she could stop him.

                “Don’t get that on your guitar, Greg!”

                “Yes mum!” He called back, shutting the door.

\

                “School is unforgivably dull,” Sherlock announced, flinging himself over Mycroft’s (freshly made, thank you very much) bed.

                Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his brother in the mirror. “Sherlock, I am impressed. It’s been nearly a month and this is the first time you’ve complained about the institution in such broad terms.”

                “Shut up and finish getting dressed so we can go.”

                “I thought school was unforgivably dull?” Mycroft tucked in the hem of his blue shirt- he’d deduced on the third day of literature class that blue was Lestrade’s favorite color. Luckily, it was his too. And even though he didn’t much care for the rest of his appearance, it was somehow easier to pretend that someone might notice or care how he looked. In all honesty, he didn’t know why he bothered- it wasn’t as though he’d ever manage to talk to the older boy. Even when Gregory wasn’t surrounded by his friends, he gave off an aura of being far too _cool_ for Mycroft Holmes.

                Sherlock sat up with a huff, picking up one of Mycroft’s textbooks and leafing through it at random. “It _is_ , but Molly might be back today.”

                “Sherlock, the flu can last a surprisingly long time, especially in children of your age, and Molly’s parents are overprotective. I would be surprised if she were back to school earlier than Friday.”

                Sherlock’s scowl let Mycroft know that his attempt to let the boy down easy had not been well-received. “But that would mean she missed a whole _week_ ,” Sherlock complained.

                “Put that book back, we can go as soon as I make sure Redbeard has water in his dish.”

                “He does, I just filled it up.”

                “ _Clean_ water?” Mycroft checked suspiciously.

                With a huff, Sherlock answered, “Yes, Father was watching.”

                “Fine, then. Outside with you.”

                Sherlock scrambled off the bed and picked up his own books from the hall. Mycroft followed more slowly, enjoying his moments of relative peace before beginning the school day, spent being inundated by other _people_ and the demands they placed on his time. “Have you got your homework, Sherlock?”

                “Yes.”

                “And your lunch?”

                “ _Yes_ , mother hen, now let’s _go_ ,”

                Sherlock’s pace was always breakneck, and Mycroft tried to remind himself to be grateful for the exercise as he said, “I am glad to see you have managed to maintain a friendship for so long, Sherlock.”

                “Of course I have, Molly is _interesting_. She likes dead things.”

                Chuckling, Mycroft dodged one of Sherlock’s arms, which was being swung around like a windmill for some reason. “I know. So, brother mine, what have you been doing in class?”

                “Absolutely nothing of any interest at all. But they do let me read whenever I want. When the teacher isn’t talking, anyway.”

                “How wonderful for you.” Mycroft was proud of his younger brother; he’d not yet come home with the telltale scrape marks from bullies or ‘adventures’ gone wrong. Perhaps this was the year that his social learning curve would catch up to the rest of his brain.

                “It’s all right.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like having to sit still.”

                “I know.”

                The rest of the short walk passed in silence, and when they stopped beside the school Sherlock asked, “Can you pick me up today?”

                “I do not believe I can, Sherlock… the drama club has asked for my assistance- the assistance of student government, I mean- promoting their new production. If I can manage to take care of that at lunch after mathlete practice, I will text you and hurry over immediately after the last bell.”

                “Okay. See you after school!” Sherlock jumped away, bouncing toward the quiet school. Mycroft tried to figure out a way that he could manage his time so he could pick his younger brother up from school, deciding that Sherlock would need a positive event after being disappointed by the absence of Molly Hooper. Perhaps if he were to write an announcement for the drama club during class, fill out the forms for the business club’s next ‘field trip’ at break and hand the drama announcement off to Anthea for revision and/or posting before going to mathlete practice, he could manage to take his brother out for ice cream after school. He’d been hoping to get up the courage to talk to Lestrade during break, but he supposed that that was a lost cause anyway, and his time would be better spent on _productive_ activities.

\

                Tapping his pencil in time with the meter of the poem they were reading, Lestrade finished and looked around the room. He supposed he liked the poem well enough, but poetry in general wasn’t really his forte. He wasn’t too interested, therefore, in what _he_ thought of it but _was_ ready to hear other peoples’ ideas. Only a few other students had looked up from the textbook, though, but the genius in the other corner was one of them. Lestrade watched him tapping discreetly at his phone and wondered whether he was bored or just busy. The kid seemed to _always_ be busy, sitting in class listening attentively but filling every spare second with some motion or task. Greg had to admit that it was a little impressive, even if it was also intimidating and really, really inconvenient because he’d been meaning to talk to Mycroft for weeks now and hadn’t managed to think of one single thing to say that would be worth more of his time than whatever he was accomplishing.

                He supposed he could ask what Mycroft thought of something they were reading in class, but that was so pedestrian. Not memorable at all, probably just annoying. And anyway, what was he going to do, sprint after the poor boy in the hallway? No. There would be no unnecessary accosting.

                “So, what do we all think?” Their teacher clapped her hands together, and Lestrade returned his attention to class.

\

“You like someone,” Sherlock announced one night at dinner, pointing a mashed-potato covered fork at Mycroft accusingly.

                “I like plenty of people,” Mycroft responded, confused. “I am very fond of multiple authors, I like mother and father, and I keep my objections about you to myself,” He smirked at his younger brother.

                “No,” Sherlock corrected him, leaning forward over the table- and putting his elbows right in his food in the process. “I mean you like someone. Like in the movies. Are you going to take him to the movies?”

                “Him?” Their father asked, just as their mother began, “Why didn’t you tell us so, Myc?”

                “I… actually must confess that I don’t know what Sherlock is talking about.”

                “How can you like someone and not know?” Sherlock asked him, tone interrogatory. Mycroft sighed internally at the younger boy’s antics.

                “Sherlock, I don’t have time to take anyone to the movies. The demands on my time are only increasing as midterms come closer.”

                “But you do like someone.”

                Mycroft shrugged. “If you say so, brother dear.” Perhaps the boy was referring to Anthea? They had been standing rather close this afternoon while working on the latest student government announcements. It was possible that Sherlock could smell her perfume on him. But no, Sherlock had said _him_. Quite loudly.

                “Not in one of your stupid clubs or you’d have had them over to work on some project and I would have noticed.”

                Returning his attention to his food, Mycroft answered, “I have no doubt that, did this hypothetical person exist, you would notice them instantly. I’m sure my hypothetical taste is impeccable.” Something brushed at the back of his mind, reminding him that his actual taste _was_ impeccable, the only flaw being that he had chosen so well that he was intimidated.

                Sherlock snapped his little fingers, something he’d learned to do two years ago and had since done at every feasible opportunity. “They’re not in class with you at the beginning of the day or you’d be in more of a hurry to get to school and see them. Pity, you might nag me less and focus on letting me go about my day in your haste to go about your own.”

                “I will be sure to nag you more.” Mycroft answered, noting that his parents had gone back to their dinners as well and were ignoring the exchange between their children- or pretending to, at any rate. Mummy was slightly disappointed that Mycroft hadn’t found anyone, and he wondered if he ought to make a comment or two about people they saw when doing errands or family activities to reassure her.

                “It’s no one you’ve known for long. End of the day, new student.” Sherlock watched him closely, and Mycroft realized with chagrin that his younger brother could see the recognition he felt now that it had been narrowed down for him. He supposed he ought to come clean before Sherlock began overestimating his powers of deduction- in the past, Mycroft taking a liking to a cat on a walk had evolved into an elaborate deduction wherein the cat was actually a cow and the walk a misguided attempt to run away from home. Avoiding another such fabrication was infinitely preferable, even if it was mildly embarrassing that he had not registered that Sherlock actually had the right of it this time.

                “Oh, you mean Gregory.” He nodded. “Well done, Sherlock, except that I do not like him any more than I like my other classmates. He is new, and therefore slightly more interesting than the people I have grown up with. Your premise is a little faulty, but the deductions were good and I’m willing to overlook the starting point given that passing interest can be confused with lasting interest.” He nodded again, mentally adding points to Sherlock’s deductions scoreboard. His learning curve was excellent.

                “No, you like him,” Sherlock smiled and pulled his elbows out of his dinner, picking up his fork and resuming his meal as though he had not just thrown his elder brother into an existential crisis.

                “That’s wonderful, Myc!” His mother exclaimed, reaching for his hand across the table.

                “We ought to have the boy over for dinner,” Father put in with a smile.

                Mycroft sighed. “Please, it isn’t like that, I’ve barely even talked to him. He knows next to nothing about me.”

                “Well, maybe you ought to fix that?”

                “He is new, exceedingly popular, has a job, and is very good at rugby. I doubt he would find his social calendar enriched by my presence, and mine is not exactly wanting for things to do.” Perhaps the pain it caused him to admit that Gregory Lestrade would have no interest in him meant that Sherlock was more correct than Mycroft had thought.

                “Well, if you change your mind, just let us know,” Mummy patted his hand solicitously.

\

                As the weather got colder, business slowed down. But really, that was to be expected from an ice cream parlour. Greg leaned on the counter, thinking absently of all the homework he had waiting in his bag. It was probably unprofessional to want to work on it while he was on the job, but with midterms coming up and his performance in maths falling below his standard, he wanted to spend all the time he could on homework. Idly, he rubbed at one of the leather bracelets around his left wrist, the one that had started out black but been through so many concerts and motorcycle repair sessions and god knew what else that it had started to go grey. Matched the nametag he’d been given when he’d gotten a job here. He straightened up and looked around for something to do, trying to ignore the rugby game he could see going in the park across the street. He missed captaining a team, but he’d decided that work was a better use of his time this year. Besides, he had quickly made friends who would play with him for fun.

                “Hurry up, it’s cold outside,” The door banged open and a little brunet mess of curls bounced in, wrapped in a coat at least two sizes too big for him.

                “And yet you desire _ice_ cream, which will only chill you further. And I’d thank you to keep my jacket off the floor.” Greg hoped it wasn’t outwardly obvious that he was internally malfunctioning, instincts warring between adopting a casual demeanor with an easy smile and giving a loud, overly-familiar greeting. He ended up not having to make the decision, a small hand tapping at his forearm before he could process much more than the fact that Mycroft Holmes had just come in.

                “I want mint. Please.” The little boy staring up at him had Mycroft’s pale eyes.

                “Sure,” Greg smiled at him, and then smiled more brightly at Mycroft. “And d’you want anything, or are you just treating him?”

                “He needs ice cream.” Sherlock asserted. “Or he’ll starve.” He nodded as though he were the preeminent expert on food as Greg handed him his ice cream.

                Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, I have told you before, missing lunch on occasion in no way means that I am going to starve,” His cheeks were pink, but Greg wasn’t sure if that was from the cold or embarrassment. He wished he had something to contribute to the conversation, but as it was he had no idea what to say and could only stand like an object, dying to say more and utterly unable to think of anything even moderately witty.

                “If you do not choose something for yourself, it will seem as though you are simply indulging me. Embarrassing for the both of us.”

                “Fine,” Mycroft sighed neutrally, and Greg wondered if the little kid was always so bossy. “Just vanilla, please,” he requested, taking Sherlock’s place in front of the counter and taking his wallet from his pocket.

                “Sure. No problem,” Greg stumbled for a moment, trying not to look as self-aware and incompetent as he felt. “I- erm- I liked what you said in class today. About the poem. The Blake one.”

As if they had read another. Dear god. He handed Mycroft the ice cream and hoped the cute boy wasn’t going to freeze to death on his walk to- wherever he was going.

                “Oh,” Mycroft seemed surprised, and Greg bit his tongue. Mycroft probably thought he didn’t listen at all, was just the idiot class clown or something. Or worse, thought he was being obsessive because he remembered what the younger teen had said about some stupid poem in a class they happened to have together. “Thank you.”

                “Right, don’t mention it.” He smiled in an attempt to cover his awkwardness, and was surprised when Mycroft smiled slightly back.

                “Let’s _go_ , Mycroft,” the curly-haired kid was practically bouncing again, half of his ice cream gone.

                “It was- pleasant to see you, Gregory,” the redhead dropped his change in the tip jar and allowed himself to be led from the shop. Greg stood behind the counter, watching him go and wondering why he was blushing- all Mycroft had said was his _name_ , for god’s sake. And that it was pleasant to see him. And okay, maybe Greg had it bad for the younger boy. He sighed. _I am such a sap._

                As the door swung shut, Greg heard the little boy declare, “That was him.”

                _Did Mycroft talk about me?_

                Lestrade spent the rest of his shift with his heart fluttering, wondering what Mycroft might have said about him. He just hoped to god that it was good.

\

                Now that autumn had set in properly, the season even hinting toward an eminent change to _winter_ , the Holmes parents were making a concerted effort to drive their children to school. This was largely an attempt to keep Sherlock from catching cold, as he became a positive terror when ill. Mycroft appreciated it too, however, because it meant that he could spend more time on productive things and less time jogging behind Sherlock as his brother raced to or from school.

                This was not the most productive of his mornings, though. He was in the school cafeteria, waiting for a student he was tutoring. He was even earlier than he had planned to be, and was on the point of pulling out a book and passing the time that way when he caught sight of a familiar head of dark hair. Without making a conscious decision about it, he watched Greg Lestrade talking with his friends- there were so many of them. The new boy had assimilated quickly, making multitudes of friends and keeping up easily in his classes- except maths. Sometimes, Mycroft wanted to ask if he could help, but he wasn’t sure how he would explain knowing that Lestrade needed help in the first place. He was overly-aware that it was creepy, knowing as much as he did about the people around him when they’d never told him. Besides, Lestrade probably thought he was a hopeless geek. It would be all too easy to confirm that by speaking to him.

                Still, watching the older boy laugh was a wonderful surprise. He’d not thought to be spending his morning in any more pleasant a fashion than going over material he already knew for the benefit of one of his old debate team members.

Lestrade hadn’t been to his locker yet, holding his motorbike helmet in his lap, arms crossed loosely over it. On his left wrist was his favorite faded leather band, and two of his collection of thin spiked bracelets. Gregory’s casually punk appearance only intrigued Mycroft more. He’d never seen anyone so… so _cool_. And he didn’t understand why it had to be the most easygoing and well-liked boy at school who made his heartbeat quicken, but Gregory’s smile made Mycroft feel as though the whole world had started turning faster. He had never quite let go of the memory of the day he took Sherlock for ice cream and that smile had been directed at _him_ ; he’d been flustered for the first time in recent memory. Greg Lestrade was just… so far out of his league. It was a feeling he was unused to. Then again, he’d never been romantically interested in anyone before, regardless of how much better than him they might be.

                “Hey, good morning, sorry I’m late. Lotta traffic,”

                “Oh,” Mycroft looked up at the girl beside him, mustering a smile. “It is no problem, Elizabeth. Have a seat.”

                “Thanks. Science isn’t really my strong suit, and I know that you don’t _have_ a subject that’s not a strong suit,” she laughed, pulling her notebook from her bag. “I just have a few questions, it won’t take long.”

                “As long as we are done in time for class, time is of no matter to me.” Mycroft reassured her, tearing his attention away from Lestrade. It was fruitless to waste time on being intrigued by someone like him, anyway; he’d never notice Mycroft as anything more than the know-it-all in the corner of class.

                “Great,” Elizabeth smiled.

\

                Literature class had become less about the literature than about Mycroft Holmes. Greg couldn’t help but think of the clever boy while he read, wondering what he would say about each piece. Invariably, he was impressed when he heard. Sometimes when Holmes was done talking, Greg would find that he had lost himself to imagining what it would be like if Mycroft were talking to _him_ , just to him.

                It was probably worthless to wonder what that would be like, though. In reality, the most likely pattern of a conversation between them would be Greg boring Mycroft to death until the younger boy put him in his intellectual place or simply left. The thought was not encouraging.

                Still, as they read Lestrade snuck peeks at Mycroft, bent over his textbook with his ankles crossed and tucked back under the desk, one elbow propped on the desk’s surface with his hand resting against his cheek. It was sort of… cute, the posture, and Greg stopped finishing reading assignments faster than most because he kept glancing over at Mycroft. Sometimes he walked past the younger teen in the hall, or entered the literature classroom at almost the same time, but he could never think of anything to say. Mycroft wasn’t the kind of person who would care who won the footy match or whether Will from science was going to be able to play rugby this weekend. He might like music, but probably only things that could be played quietly in the background while he studied or kicked someone’s arse up and down the chessboard. Lestrade reflected briefly on how much he would like to see that, but figured it’d be a little stalkerish to just show up at a chess match.

                It was too cold now for Mycroft to bring his brother by the ice cream shop again, though Lestrade lived in hope. Every time the door at work opened while his back was turned, he spun to look as though he were expecting the Queen. Sometimes he wanted to be smooth enough to get away with dropping a line like ‘hey, feel free to bring your brother by any time,’ but he knew himself well enough to know that’d he’d oversell it or otherwise fuck it up and creep Mycroft out. The guy probably didn’t get a lot of rough guitar players trying to put the moves on him. Hell, he probably didn’t get _any_ guys putting moves on him. Greg had spent entire literature class periods trying to figure out if Mycroft would even be into that, but he’d had no luck. And he had that friend who talked to him all the time and looked at other guys like they were chewed gum on a bus seat. The gorgeous one in student government- she had a weird name too. Althea, maybe? Greg sighed and tried to pay attention to his textbook.

\

                Mycroft tried to never dwell for too long on Lestrade, except in literature class and as he dressed in the morning. The rest of his time was filled with managing schoolwork, applications for study programs, Sherlock, and of course extra-curricular activities. Student government was always time-consuming, and though he considered himself to have very nearly mastered chess it could still be an enjoyable pastime, which was why he kept it up- that and the highbrow tone winning chess tournaments leant to his resumes. Homework was as dull as always, though much more time consuming than it had been in previous years. The mathletes had a new advisor who seemed determined that they practice as a team every day, and while that was impossible for most, at least one or two of them managed to make it either after school or at lunch. Mycroft took to bringing food from home so he could go right to the physics classroom and participate. Sometimes, while he was busy with a motor task that did not require his actual attention, such as dressing before school, he regretted that he did not have the chance to initiate conversation with Greg Lestrade. Not that he would know what to say, anyway. And due to A levels and academic flexibility, they’d likely never see each other again once the year ended; honing talents and expanding his resume were far more important tasks to focus on than making small talk with the most attractive person he’d ever seen.

                “Hi, Mycroft,” Greg smiled at him as they passed in a corridor, the older boy surrounded by friends- two of whom were attractive girls who would quite happily have slept with Lestrade.

                “H-hello,” Mycroft managed to say, changing his hold on his textbooks so he didn’t drop them. He turned to look over his shoulder reflexively, watching Lestrade continue down the corridor with an easy gait, laughing kindly at something one of the girls had said.

                _Gregory Lestrade just said hello to you_. He smiled slightly, clutching his books to his chest and continuing on his way to class. He knew it was ridiculous for that to feel like more of an accomplishment than anything else he’d ever achieved, but he’d have traded his entire collection of chess trophies for Gregory to smile at him every day. But he wouldn’t, that wouldn’t happen. Mycroft knew he was too… something. He was too busy and too strange and too quiet when he didn’t have to be. If there was no advantage in talking, he didn’t, and there was no advantage in trying to talk to someone who clearly had plenty of people to talk to already. People who shared his interests and social habits. Attractive people. People like that were the exact opposite of Mycroft, and he knew it. He was even all right with it, hoping he would accomplish a lot and be worth something one day.

And in the meantime, Gregory Lestrade had looked at him and smiled.  

\

                “You look like you’ve had a good day,”

                “Hey, mum,” Greg smiled as the door shut behind her. “How’re you?”

                “Not as good as you, apparently. Do you know that you’re bouncing?”

                “It’s called _dancing,_ mum, and I’m doing it ‘cause there’s a record on.” He opened the oven and closed it again with a bang once he’d pulled out the pizza crust he’d made.

                “Yes, I can hear that. That… Clashing band yeah?”

                He grinned at her attempt, spreading sauce over his creation. “The Clash.”

                “Ah yes, that. And you’re making pizza.”

                “I’m making _dinner_. Salad too. And I thought maybe I could do dessert.”

                His mum kicked off her shoes. “Have you wrecked your bike? Are you going to fail a class?”

                “No,” he laughed. “I had a good day.”

                “Oh? Tell me about it.” She settled herself on the other side of the counter, watching him work. “And add a little more cheese to that.”

                “Yes ma’am.” He did so, reaching over to turn down the album so they could talk. Even though it was on Inoculated City. “I got all my homework done and everything, and we didn’t get much, and they handed back a maths quiz and I got a B on it. Just a good day.”

                “And?”

                “And what?”

                “Greg, you do wonderfully in all your academics all the time. You don’t come home and make dinner every day. So… what’s different? Start a band? Get a date?”

                He tucked his lips into his mouth, trying to avoid breaking into a ridiculous smile. His mum would think he was crazy. “Well… that kid in my literature class, the smart one, you know,”

                “The one with the freckles you think are to die for.”

                “Shut up. Yeah that one,”

                She smiled. “Did you finally talk to him?”

                “Well, sort of. I mean, I said hi, and he said hi back, but it was… I dunno, I think I surprised him. I think he might actually know my name. And all.”

                “So you’re making dinner for us because that smart boy with freckles and pudgy cheeks knows you exist.”

                He chucked a bit of pepperoni at her halfheartedly, and she dodged with a giggle. “ _Mum!_ ” He protested.

                “No, no, I’m glad.” She was trying not to laugh at him, and he couldn’t help chuckling at himself. “Maybe if you manage to have a conversation you’ll clean the house for me, too.”

                “Don’t test your luck. I’m already considering not doing dessert after all.”

                “Mercy me, I’d better stop talking to you about him then, hadn’t I?”

                “If you’re _nice_ I’ll make pineapple upside down cake.” He opened the oven again and put the pizza in, returning to the pile of vegetables beside the sink that were fated for salad.

                “What did I say that _wasn’t_ nice?” She picked up the bit of pepperoni with a smile and tossed it back to him.

He opened the window a bit and laid it in the cat’s dish, still bouncing in time with the quiet beat from the turntable. “Don’t call Myc _pudgy_ ,”

“But you said-“

“Yeah but don’t say _pudgy,_ mum, it’s like you’re talking about a baby. Or… I dunno, a cat. It’s weird, it’s a weird word.” He pointed an unwashed radish at her threateningly, knowing the gesture was ruined by his sunny expression, and she raised her hands in surrender.

“Right, whatever you say. Make me pineapple cake and gimme a list of words I can use to describe this boy you like.”

“Oh, that’s easy, how about ‘none of your business,’” he winked.

“ _Harsh._ Glad to see you’ve got your dad’s sense of humor. Me, I just look at our cat and laugh for ten minutes. At least you’re capable of good comebacks.”

“When _is_ Da coming home, anyway?”

“Oh, should be here any time. Haven’t gotten any messages saying he’ll be late.”

“What’m I late for?” The door closed quietly behind Greg’s dad, and he set his briefcase down with a smile at his family.

“I think mum’s making fun of me.”

“Greg’s gonna make us pineapple upside down cake because he said hello to a pudgy boy,” His mum reported matter-of-factly, getting up to kiss her husband hello.

“ _Mum!_ ” Greg tossed a bit of carrot at her, and she ducked again.

His dad blinked at the two of them. “I am suddenly very confused and a little bit afraid.”

“You should be.” Greg pointed a paring knife at his parents, giggling at him. “I’m cooking. It’s not too late for me to poison it.”

“How do you poison a salad, son?” His da asked, and his mum leaned against the counter, looking back and forth between them as she grinned.

“I will find a way.” Greg promised with a dour look at them both, even though his mood was a far cry from being dampened. He loved his parents, and the three of them bantered even better than his friends did- though less sexually, thank god.

Shaking his head and shoving his hands resignedly in his pockets even as he smiled, Greg’s da told him, “Attitude like that and you’ll end up on the wrong side of the force, kid,”

He shook his head right back, looking down and concentrating on chopping vegetables. “I will be the only cop who’s committed double homicide.”

“Good to have goals.” They started to retreat to their room, his mum carrying her shoes and his dad picking up his briefcase from beside the door. His mum stood on her toes and whispered something to his da, who started to laugh and glanced back at him.

“Mushrooms!” He shouted after them good-humoredly. “Poisonous mushrooms! In the salad!”

\

 _Group projects,_ Mycroft thought sourly, spreading a blank poster across a table in the back corner of the lunch room that no one ever used. _More like ‘group effort to make the nerd do all the work.’_ He weighted down the corners with textbooks, open to pages he could use for reference. The history project itself wasn’t difficult, of course, just time-consuming. Much like everything else he did. Mathlete practice would have to wait until after school, today. And since Mummy had made it clear that she expected him to make time to go out for dinner that evening, he’d probably be memorizing vocabulary for science tomorrow morning before the test. Chiming in with his discontented thoughts, his stomach grumbled a complaint at the lack of lunch, making his scowl deepen as he set about tracing words onto the white sheet in front of him.

It was only a few minutes later that the every-day commotion of Greg Lestrade entering the cafeteria took place. Mycroft often raised his eyebrows in annoyance at the boisterous quality of Lestrade’s friend group, but he was a little glad for it too. If he was in the cafeteria, it was not for a reason he enjoyed, and it made whatever unpleasant task he’d set himself a little bit less boring if he got to see the older boy. Sometimes Lestrade even smiled at him. Or, well, smiled in his direction. And if Mycroft wanted to pretend that the smiles were for him, he wasn’t going to dwell on how pathetic that was.

So today, when he glanced up reflexively at the swell of noise, he was surprised to see that Gregory was shrugging away from his friends with ‘later’ hand gestures and kind smiles. One of them, Sally Donovan, glanced knowingly across the room at Mycroft, who hurriedly returned his attention to his project. Donovan had never liked him much.

“Can I sit with you?”

                Mycroft’s head jerked up, staring in confusion at the boy in front of him. He barely stopped himself from looking around to see if there was anyone else Gregory Lestrade could be talking to. Perhaps an attractive girl with a lip ring or something was standing behind him. “Y-you want to sit with me.” Mycroft responded, nonplussed.

                “Erm- yeah. If that’s okay?”

                “It is… fine.” He smiled uncertainly, glancing around for other members of the popular rugby crowd. Once upon a time they’d been rather aggressive and cruel when it came to him, and it wasn’t entirely impossible that this was the build up to some sort of nasty joke.

                “I was wondering if I could ask for your help. Erm, in maths.”

                _Oh, that explains it then._ “Of course,” He smiled brightly, letting his relief show. _Gregory Lestrade is talking to you. Of his own free will._

                Mycroft tried to act casual as he moved his textbooks out of the way, clearing space for Lestrade’s things. The older boy set them down, turning around the chair beside him and resting his arms on the back of it as he sat. Mycroft had never seen anyone do that in real life but it looked good on Gregory. As did everything. Lestrade flicked through his textbook, nervously clicking the end of a mechanical pencil. “I’m just having a little bit of… um… a bit of trouble with the… the whole- er the whole thing.”

                “Your class has just begun a new chapter, yes?” Mycroft checked, leaning slightly over to see the book. He hadn’t done this sort of math in _years_ , but it ought to still be somewhere in the back of his mind, if he dug for it. And Lestrade smelled _amazing_ , he noticed, leaning away quickly. _Do not ruin this, Mycroft,_ he told himself.

                Gregory did not seem to notice his awkwardness, glancing up at him with those magnificent brown eyes. “Yeah. Sorry to ask, I just figured- well, everyone says you’re the best.” He swallowed something else, and Mycroft allowed himself to hope that it might have been praise. Hope that Gregory thought he was the best- not that it wasn’t flattering to hear that ‘everyone’ said he was, but he wasn’t trying to impress ‘everyone.’ Only a few people mattered to him at this stage, and Gregory Lestrade was one of them.

                “I… I see. I shall attempt to live up- up to the praise.” _And to slow my heartbeat, and to not make a complete prat of myself and spoil any chance that you might ever talk to me again._

                “I’m sure you will.” And he was probably imagining it, but that smile looked a little too bright, just verging on… flirtatious. Mycroft blinked rapidly as Lestrade continued speaking casually. “So, erm, we just got a worksheet today and maybe you could show me what to do? I catch on pretty fast, I promise I won’t take too much of your time.”

                And even though it wasn’t true and he’d probably be awake until an absolutely ungodly hour to meet the goals he’d set for himself today, Mycroft replied as casually as he could; “I have nothing but time.”

                “Oh,” The smile Lestrade graced him with would have been worth a hundred sleepless nights. It crinkled the corners of his beautiful dark eyes, outshining every over-bright light in school.

                “M-may I see the problems?” Mycroft asked.

                “Right! Yeah. Here,”

                Sorting through years of mathematics classes, Mycroft found what he needed in the back of his mind. “Ah. Yes, I can see how you would find this difficult, especially with a teacher such as yours. ”

                “But you know it?”

                “Yes.” He took a deep breath to steady his confidence and began to explain, drawing parallels between the material in the book and the problems on Lestrade’s worksheet, trying to ignore the appeal of the other boy’s hands and the way his heart seemed to develop a stutter right along with his speech every time Gregory’s brown eyes met his.

                The older boy had meant it when he said he caught on quickly, and Mycroft found that after a few minutes of explanation Gregory had begun to finish the ideas, performing the calculations with very little hesitancy. “Wow. Thank you so much. I think I get it now,” he smiled at Mycroft, who felt his lips curve up in return, feeling a little lightheaded.

                “It is no problem. Feel… feel free to ask any time. If you have questions. About any subject.” _I sound like an idiot._

                “Thank you,” Greg answered.  “D’you mind if I sit here while I work?”

                Mycroft’s cheeks warmed. “Not… not at all.” He slowly went back to work on the history poster, filling in block letters and laying aside space for pictures and examples. Pausing in the methodical motions every few moments, he couldn’t help the looks he snuck at Gregory, working earnestly beside him. He really was beautiful. And clever- his contributions in literature class were invariably insightful, and Anthea said he was wonderful in science. And he was funny. And kind.

Mycroft tried to shift his attention at least partially back to his own project, determined not to be as unsettling as he knew he was.

                “Do you always skip lunch?” Greg asked suddenly, still looking at his maths worksheet.

                Mycroft felt himself blush.  “Only when I have other things to do.”

                “So… isn’t that supposed to be a group project?” Lestrade nodded toward the poster before raising his eyes to meet Mycroft’s, who quickly cast his down at the project in question.

                Color apparently not about to leave his cheeks any time soon, Mycroft nodded and brushed back the errant curl that always seemed to fall over his forehead. “I am capable of completing it on my own,” he explained, twisting his pen uncomfortably between his fingers.

                Thankfully, Gregory seemed to sense that he didn’t want to discuss the _why_ of completing it on his own, nodding at him and returning his attention to the maths paper.

                Mycroft continued to work on the poster until the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, most of his attention still caught by Lestrade- and he floated through the rest of the day, head in the clouds with thoughts of Gregory, who smiled at him during literature.

\

                Greg practically dreamed about Mycroft Holmes.

                _This is getting out of hand_ , he told himself, and then proceeded not to give a flying fuck.

                He would have thought that he’d ruined any chance he might have had with the clever boy by asking for his help with maths, but as it turned out Mycroft actually seemed to be looking at him _more._ Greg had decided that Mycroft found him interesting, either as a new student or a potential friend or a punk oddity, but interesting was a good start. Interesting meant that he had a shot at starting another conversation, though he swore to himself that this time it would be something better, something that might stand out in Holmes’ memory.

                At the end of the day, after he was home from work and had had dinner with his parents and done his schoolwork, Greg sat on his bed and strummed idly at his guitar, playing bits of various songs and trying to think of something he could introduce Mycroft to. Something interesting and memorable. Maybe ‘unique,’ was too high a bar, but something rare at least. Something that the cute redhead wouldn’t have done much before.

\

                Mycroft sighed, looking at the half-completed project on his desk. It was incredibly dull, just labeling things for science. Not even due for another two weeks. And assigned yesterday. Perhaps he ought to allow himself a little more free time this week… he could take Sherlock to the cinema one day after school. Maybe have a go on the treadmill Father bought years ago for rehabilitating his knee after surgery. Or maybe Anthea could come over for a while. She’d probably tease him about Gregory, but she’d probably also watch documentaries with him, something even Sherlock couldn’t be persuaded to do. He wished that Gregory would.

                Mycroft sighed again and shoved his science book back into his bag, finishing buttoning his shirt as his door opened with a bang.

“You should take me to school with you,” Sherlock declared, dragging Redbeard into Mycroft’s room and taking a seat on the carpet with the dog held willing captive.

                “Why should I do that?” Mycroft asked, crossing to his mirror with a comb, stopping to stoop and ruffle the fur between Redbeard’s ears.

                “Because it’s going to start pouring rain and I don’t want to wait for you in it.”

                “Then walk home alone,”

                “And carry my own umbrella? Please.” Sherlock snorted, and the way he looked up at Mycroft made the older boy suspicious.

                “Sherlock, let’s establish that you will not be missing school to follow me around at mine, so whatever it is that you really want will have to be achieved by some other means.”

                The younger boy capitulated shockingly easily. “I want to meet Lestrade.”

                “Why?” Mycroft asked, surprised. “You have met him.”

                “But I didn’t know who he was until we _left,_ ” Sherlock complained.

                Mycroft cocked his head and chivvied his brother out the door, grabbing his books for him as they passed Sherlock’s room. “Why is that important?”

                “Because it’s nearly time for Christmas holidays and if you and he are not in a relationship by then I shall be forced to endure yet more of your sulking, which will only be worse because you will not see him every day.” Sherlock snatched his bag from his brother and strode out the door. “You probably won’t help me with my experiments if you’re in a foul mood.”

                “I do not sulk.” Doing his best not to pout too obviously, Mycroft saw where the conversation was heading and attempted to reroute it.

                Sherlock surprised him by saying, “I wanna know if he likes you as much as you like him. That’s what happens in the stories.” He kicked at a puddle, splashing water everywhere.

                “Sherlock…” He sighed. His brother of all people ought to know that people did not always like you, no matter how much you liked them. Life was very much _not_ a fairytale. In fact, Sherlock and Mycroft between them could probably write some kind of anti-fairytale on reasons people might dislike you. “I very much doubt that he is aware of me as a person in my own right. To him, I am likely a background fixture.” _Even though he says hello to me sometimes, and smiled at me in the shop. He asked for my help on maths homework. I suppose I’m useful to him, at least._

                “I don’t understand how that could be possible. Do you not interfere with every aspect of life at your school?”

                Mycroft smiled thinly and offered a hand to Sherlock as the younger boy skidded on a patch of melting ice. “I am active in the extra-curriculars offered at my school, if that is what you mean.”

                “So how can he not know you?”

                “He knows my opinions on many things, Sherlock. He has heard me speak in class nearly every day, and he has heard my opinions on various school activities… even if he did not know they were mine.” Mycroft looked down at his brother with a slight smirk. “Student government frequently writes and revises announcements and such.”

                “But he doesn’t know you,”

                “No.”

                “See, I bet I could get him to talk to you. And I could deduce if he likes you back.”

                “What makes you think I have not already done so?”

                “You’re biased,” Sherlock dismissed the idea. “If I do it, the results will be uncontaminated.”

                “Obviously.” Mycroft nodded, trying not to let his younger brother’s prattle get into his mind. “The fact remains that you will not be coming to school with me.”

                “So let’s go by his shop again.”

                _No, definitely not more dessert._ “It’s _December._ ”

                “And you’re an idiot.”

                “And you’re going to get cooties from Molly Hooper.”

                “Molly does not have _cooties_!” Sherlock exclaimed indignantly, successfully distracted. Mycroft regretted that he’d had to resort to such a low blow, but needs must. And anything to get Sherlock off the subject of Gregory.

                The hell of it was, Sherlock was probably right, Mycroft thought as he walked from Sherlock’s school to his own. Mycroft couldn’t help how much he fancied Greg Lestrade, and he’d certainly had his fair share of fantasies ranging from casual lunchtime conversations to absurd scenes of sudden affection- he’d once simply stopped, staring at his locker one morning, gripped by the sudden mental image of the older boy striding up to him and kissing him passionately, pinning him against the bank of lockers. It was incredibly inconvenient.

                His favorite part of any given day was listening to Gregory’s opinion in literature class, and over break he would undoubtedly miss that. Very much. But there was no way that Lestrade would want to initiate any relationship between the two of them, and no matter how much Mycroft wanted to he always remembered a litany of reasons he shouldn’t try.

\

                _Okay, Greg. Okay. You’ve got this. You have totally one hundred percent got this._ He bounced his knee distractedly, trying to ignore Sally in the back of the room smirking at him and giving him a thumbs up. He reminded himself again to never _ever_ play truth or dare with people you interacted with on a daily basis. Sally hadn’t stopped teasing him for liking Mycroft Holmes of all people, and he still couldn’t look Phillip in the eye.

                _Please,_ he thought to nothing in particular. _Don’t let me fuck this up._

_If I manage to not fuck this up I really will clean the house for mum._

He took a deep breath as the clock ticked another minute closer to the end of the day. Around the room, people were starting to pack up. He shoved his things in his bag and waited at the edge of the seat, determined to not have to run after the boy in the other corner. This was going to be as smooth as physically possible.

                The bell rang and he was up, hurrying across the room and following Mycroft Holmes out the door, trying not to lose sight of the tall redhead as people flooded the halls.

                “Hey,” he said, catching up and trying to fall into an easy stride. “Shite weather today, huh?”

                Mycroft glanced at him as though he were an escaped wild animal. “Erm- yes.”

 _Okay Greg, this is it. Your time to shine. You got this._ He offered his most brilliant smile as tribute. “Can I give you a ride home?”

                “What?”

                “Well, you’re always walking everywhere, and it’s pouring rain, and-”

                “I-I have an umbrella.”

                Greg flushed. “Well, of course you do, only-” _Only I’m a complete idiot and thought it would be fun if you sat pressed up behind me and looped your arms around my waist and now I sound like a perv, don’t I?_

“I would very much appreciate a ride to Sherlock’s school… if it isn’t too far out of your way. He is expecting me to walk him home.”

                Greg smiled widely enough that it hurt his cheeks. “I haven’t got work today so nothing’s too far out of my way. C’mon, I have a spare helmet in my locker. You can give me directions.” _And once I’ve dropped you off my house is going to get the cleaning of the century._

                “Thank you, Gregory.”

                _He said my name, oh god. Our house is going to be the cleanest place in London._ “Sure, no problem!” He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “It’s good of you to go get your brother every day.”

                Mycroft shrugged demurely, eyes on his feet. “Not every day, usually I have commitments. To one organization or other. But when I can manage it.” Greg couldn’t help staring at him, and he really did try to stop because it was probably weird but Myc was just _gorgeous._ “Do you really enjoy Russian literature?” the younger boy’s eyes flicked to his face shyly, and Greg smiled.

_He remembered that I said I did. Oh my god he pays attention to me._

_Holy shit I sound like a crazy person._

“Yeah, some of it. Pushkin isn’t bad, and I really like _A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch._ Never could get much into the big _War and Peace_ kind of deals, though. Russians do love their suffering.” He chuckled, hoping he wasn’t being weird. The last thing he wanted to do was make Mycroft uncomfortable. “After a while it all kind of… runs together, for me.”

“I see.” Mycroft stopped beside his locker, but Greg himself kept walking.

“Oh! Whoops,” he laughed. “Good thing you know where to stop, I’d just wander out of the building.” He spun the dial and opened his locker, catching a glimpse of Mycroft’s slightly mortified expression as the door swung open. “Hey, I didn’t mean that sarcastically. Like, it really is helpful. How did you know?” He asked, trying to be kind as Mycroft clung to his literature book, smashing it against his chest as he turned crimson.

“I… I have a good memory. And you had it written on your hand on the first day of school.”

“Wow, that’s neat! I’ve always wished I could have a better memory, sometimes I completely space on assignments and stuff. Never could remember birthdays, either. Good with faces though.” He chattered mindlessly, trying to get some of the color to fade from Mycroft’s cheeks. There was no reason to be embarrassed about having a good memory. And Greg might have been _just a little_ flattered that Mycroft had noticed something written on his hand- which was dumb, but still true. “Here’s my spare helmet, sometimes I just walk out of the house without mine and it’s good to have one here for the ride home. Speaking of an awful memory, heh.” He held the plain black helmet out to Mycroft, who took it carefully.

“Thank you very much for offering to give me a ride,” Mycroft said, still seemingly unable to meet his eyes. Greg wondered if he was always this shy, but he didn’t think so- he’d seen Mycroft in the hallways giving instructions to legions of students, and tutoring some people, and occasionally making small talk. He hoped he wasn’t somehow intimidating the redhead.

“Yeah, ‘course. Shouldn’t have to slog through weather like this. D’you need to go to your locker before we go?”

“Yes, I’ll need to get my umbrella. For walking Sherlock home. And my textbooks.”

                “Right, obviously.” He slammed his locker shut and heard something fall against the door, but ignored it. He’d deal with it tomorrow morning. “What about you, do you like Russian literature? You probably _do_ like the classics, huh?”

                “They’re better in Russian,” Mycroft shrugged. “But yes. I actually rather like _Anna Karenina_ , and _Crime and Punishment_ is… good.”

                “They’re better in… do you speak Russian?” He asked, awed.

                Mycroft faltered, then nodded sharply. “I learned a few summers ago. So that I could read _A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch_ , actually.” He smiled hesitantly at Greg.

                “Woah. Was it hard?”

                “I… it took less than an hour.” He was looking down, as though he expected Greg not to believe him. But somehow, Greg didn’t doubt for a second that Mycroft was telling the truth. He’d seen the other boy do some amazing things, heard about him doing even more. And the school’s trophy case for academic competitions was full of awards with his name on them. Sally had showed him, trying to get him to grasp the ridiculousness of the position he’d put himself in, falling for Mycroft Holmes. So, Russian in less than an hour? Yeah, he could see it.

                “Holy shit. I mean, I knew you were smart, but that’s… awesome. That’s awesome. You’re really impressive.”

                “Th-thank you. This- erm, this is my locker.” He stopped, and Greg stopped behind him, trying to calm himself down. He’d unwittingly picked an actual certifiable genius to fancy the pants off of. “One moment.” Mycroft dropped to his knees and began adding textbooks from the bottom of his locker to his bag.

                “Sure, no hurry,” Lestrade smiled. “I certainly haven’t got anything better to do.”

                “Nor have I.” Mycroft looked up at him with a careful smile. Greg wondered for a moment if anyone had ever just been nice to him before.

                “So… any plans over the break?”

                “N-not particularly. Sherlock has a few experiments he would like to run, and I have been meaning to accomplish a few tasks, but nothing overly interesting. Do you?”

                “Nope. Sitting around all day, cleaning my bike.”

                “And playing guitar?” Mycroft asked, standing and picking up his bag, kicking his locker shut casually. Greg thought that Myc’d probably never done that before in his life; it didn’t seem natural for him.

                “Yeah, how did you know?”

                Mycroft shrugged, seemingly gaining confidence. “Not a very difficult deduction, with the state of your hands.”

                “Guess my hands tell you a lot, huh?”

                A delicate blush crept over the younger boy’s cheekbones. “Yes.”

                “So what else can you deduce about me?” Greg asked as they headed for the parking lot.

                As they stepped outdoors, Mycroft opened his umbrella above both of them with ease. “Several things. What sort of thing are you wondering about?”

                “Erm… you got my locker number on the first day. What else?”

                “On the first day? You’re sixteen- nearly seventeen now-, you play guitar, you spent your summer in France, transferred here from North Somerset, you play rugby, your family has two dogs and a cat, your parents are still married but you have no siblings, you work in a shop- I knew it was something in food service and that you weren’t working that day, and that your favorite foods are pizza and Nutella.” Glancing shyly at Greg as though afraid he’d scared him off, Mycroft seemed to huddle into himself.

                “First off, yeah. That’s exactly right. All of it. Holy shit,” he exhaled loudly, impressed. “Wow. And here I’d been wondering if you even knew I existed.” He laughed slightly breathlessly to himself. “That’s amazing. You can do that to everyone?”

                “Nearly everyone. When I first began teaching Sherlock, he would often stage false evidence. Just to annoy me, I suspect.” He smiled thinly as Greg stopped them beside his bike.

                “You two are something else, aren’t you?” Greg smiled brightly, wishing he could grab Mycroft’s face and kiss him. He blamed it on the rain. Brushing the moment off, he continued, “Alright, so this might be a little weird… you’re gonna have to sit behind me, and hold on. Tuck your feet up so that they don’t drag or touch the parts of the bike that get hot, yeah?”

                “I do know how to ride tandem,” Mycroft pointed out, smiling. “I’ve seen it done many times.”

                “And that’s enough to teach you,”

                “Yes.” He ducked his head again.

                “Awesome.” Greg put on his helmet and straddled his bike. “Get on then, show-off, and we’ll see whether you really do.”

                Mycroft folded down his umbrella and climbed behind Greg, who suddenly remembered why this had been the most brilliant idea he’d ever had. Mycroft was pressed against his back, his hands shyly around Greg’s middle. Lestrade smiled and started the bike, turning where Mycroft indicated to do so and enjoying the feeling of the other boy’s warmth behind him in the rain. He thought that that ride was the most romantic and most exhilarating thing he’d ever done.

                When they came into sight of Sherlock’s school, Greg was tempted to ‘accidentally’ ride by and have to go around the block, but he didn’t, slowing the bike at the kerb. He killed the engine and got off, offering Mycroft a hand. The younger boy took it and reopened his umbrella above them, pulling off his helmet. “Th-thank you. Very m-much,” he handed back the helmet, looking more at his feet than anything. Greg allowed his fingers to drag over Mycroft’s for a moment as the helmet changed hands, trying to figure out whether Mycroft was a blushing, stuttering mess in a good way or a bad way.

                “Not a problem,” Greg assured him, clapping his shoulder. “I… guess I’ll see you around?”

                “Y-yes. Thank- thank you.”

                “Kiss him.”

                Mycroft jumped visibly, and Greg nearly startled backward into traffic. “ _Sherlock!”_ Mycroft exclaimed, his blush spreading further up his face. “I’m s-sorry, Gregory, I- I don’t- I mean, that is,” He tripped over his words, looking away from Greg and his expectantly-waiting younger brother alike. The little kid had appeared out of nowhere. Fuckin’ _taunting_ Greg with what he wanted to do most.

                For Mycroft’s sake, he tried to laugh it off, but couldn’t bring himself to deny that he wanted to. “Not in front of _you_ , kid.”

                “Please. I _have_ been to the cinema. I live in the world. I am aware of kissing.” Sherlock stared up at him with wide, expectant eyes, his head cocked like Mycroft’s was when he was waiting for something.

                “ _Sherlock,_ for _god’s sake.”_ Mycroft hissed at his brother. “Please.” He took a breath and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I am terribly sorry, Gregory. Sherlock is… can be difficult.”

                “He’s- erm, he’s fine.” Greg took a deep breath, carpe-ing the diem. “Uh, could I… maybe… call you sometime?”

                Mycroft’s eyes widened, and Greg thought for a second that he might have broken the younger boy.

                “I _told_ you,” Sherlock piped up smugly, scribbling on a wet bit of paper he’d produced from somewhere. “When you come over, bring ice cream. And he likes documentaries. _Really_ boring ones.” The kid rolled his eyes and held out the paper, wet edges smudging what was clearly a phone number. Greg looked at Mycroft uncertainly, wondering whether he ought to take it.

                “I… yes, Gregory, p-please do call. Whenever you like.” He smiled, and it was probably the most beautiful expression Lestrade had ever seen on another human. He took the soggy paper from Sherlock, smirking slightly as he did so. Apparently he was in for a lot more than he’d bargained for. That was just fine with him.

                “Right,” he smiled, folding the paper carefully and putting it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “I- I’m sure you two have places to be.” _And I have a house to clean. And dinner to make and laundry to fold and whatever else I can think of._ “I’ll just… go.”

                “See you tomorrow?” Mycroft asked, as though school would suddenly stop existing just because Greg had his phone number.

                “’Course.” And completely spontaneously, he leaned in to kiss Mycroft’s cheek, stepping back with a deep breath. “See you tomorrow.”

                “Good,” Mycroft’s blush was definitely good, and his voice was a little breathy- just enough to let Greg know that _yeah, he’d done good._ Everything was good. Everything was amazing. And tomorrow was going to be even better.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've never been to school in Great Britain and I have no idea what sort of clubs/student organizations there are, so if I've messed up, I'm sorry.


End file.
